


Ça ne fait rien (It's All Fine)

by lalunaticscribe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: French, Glove Kink, Language Kink, M/M, Mostly English, Sherlock Speaks French, drives John mad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalunaticscribe/pseuds/lalunaticscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men flirting outside a Paris café is sometimes... two men flirting outside a Paris café.</p><p>Set in an alternate universe after WWII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ça ne fait rien (It's All Fine)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The signal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/401022) by [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins). 



> Inspired by [The signal](http://archiveofourown.org/series/23774) by dioscureantwins. So sad that more was never written, and I wanted some nice flirting. So, Sherlock, John, outside a Parisian café, flirting à la mode, and Sherlock is being so very nice.
> 
> Also, the fact that they can, is because of the Napoleonic Code, which actually decriminalised homosexuality in most of Europe.

“My dear doctor!”

It was a soft, purring voice – the kind deliberately wielt as the maestro might a Stradivarius – and there was neither impulsiveness nor premeditation behind it.

John Watson nodded. He took his tea with great ceremony; one would have said that this occasion merited it. “My dear Mr Holmes.”

Both paused, with the air of duellists at _en garde_.

In the midst of the heat wave that swept the Continent, a languid Paris eddied mildly. It would have been safe to say that perhaps, the languid Paris could have been omitted by two titans, one tall, thin and perhaps of a bent, and the other shorter, stockier and of the that presence of the Empire's Army. However, _here_ was the coffee-shop terrace, and both men were seated. A pot of tea, two teacups and saucers and the remnants of afternoon tea lay in shambles between them on the Riviera.

“Not in practice much?” Mr Sherlock Holmes offered, continuing with the air of some unknown performance so obvious that nearby, a few Frenchmen paused, surreptitiously searching for an excuse to continue with the performance of two Englishmen occupied with _l'esprit de l'escalier_.

“No,” John stoically answered, deliberately keeping his twinkling eye upon the face with bow lips and curls and a pretty _retrouss_ _é_ nose, and not descending down towards the Mephistophelean ensemble Sherlock was wearing. “Purely in a _private_ capacity.”

Plump lips parted. Between the slips of a collar and over a cravat, the Adam's apple bobbed. There lay, for Dr John Watson, the conundrum of whether making eyes towards a man's breastbone button was the most socially appropriate motion to avoid temptation. Either the suspenders held over provocatively narrow trousers and-

John was momentarily distracted by a Lovely Young Thing strolling through, a cornucopia of locks floating around her head. The turn of one shoulder, quite solidly built, ensured Sherlock's turn at admiring it, and how it get the shirt _off_. Quite rightly, a pink worm emerged, one plump cushion fairly wet at the thought of laving a shoulder, perhaps while said shoulder was touching the clean sheets of his bed-

Around them, Paris and its _arrondissements_ milled, some perhaps feeling the approach of a thunderstorm, mild for summer but no less inconvenient for the frisson as overwhelming as the heat.

Very slowly, a long finger – the longest finger of the whole hand – inserted itself between fleshy lips. The owner of said finger – and said lips – licked at the dusting of sugar in a manner that should be vulgar but instead seemed rather coy.

The doctor nodded, pouring himself another cup.

The detective took up his gloved hand.

The hand holding onto a teapot shook, sending tea coursing down to pool into the saucer, fluid chestnut against china.

While this might be less obvious to those unrefined shared circles of theirs, here John was very aware that the cotton was so close to nude as Sherlock could find, and that the _nude_ was close to that shiny finger. It made for an entertaining view, to say the least.

John was thinking that Sherlock should stop that right now-

The long digit, expertly – and rather indiscreetly – fellated in public, was released with a pop, and Sherlock grinned. Finally, one of them has completed the staircase.

Forget it. It doesn't matter. None of it matters except putting the childish fallen angel back.

“Shall we adjourn, then?” the doctor proposed, leaning forward to set the teapot down, with only a single rattle of china on an enamelled table.

“ _Pourquoi ?_ ” Sherlock pronounced, one eye closing with a wink. “ _Mon_ _frère_ _aîné_ _paie pour_ _nous_ _._ ”

“... Do that again.”


End file.
